


Wounds That Can't Be Mend

by neverminetohold



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Character Study, Family, Gen, Minor Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-07
Updated: 2014-01-10
Packaged: 2018-01-07 21:50:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1124775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neverminetohold/pseuds/neverminetohold
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As Smaug attacked Erebor, Thranduil turned away, and his army went with him...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Erebor

_… and the Elvenking turned away. His delegation and guards followed him, down a corridor of gem-veined stone and the mighty statues carved into it, like a shield between him and the gold-fever, gleaming sinister behind the amusement and pride in King Thrór's eyes._  
  
 _Something was lost that day, eroded by Dwarven sickness._  
  
XXX  
  
The air was ripe with the stench of sulfur. It was carried up the mountainside by a summer wind tainted by heat as yet unknown to these parts of Middle-Earth, parching the throats of the gathering Elves.  
  
Thranduil watched the chaos below, Durin's folk abandoning its kingdom in haste born of fear and the death that lay behind, faces streaked with soot, some gleaming with tears, but all pale with the shock of being uprooted.  
  
The Longbeard's fate, turned into fugitives in the span of mere moments, carrying nothing but the clothes on their back, the children clutched in their arms and weapons a dragon's might had proven to be useless.  
  
A roar vibrated up towards a sky tinged yellow and green with the promise of thunder, the weather itself bowing to the force of the dragon. Heavy was the atmosphere, by deeds done and the unknown future to come, gathering dark clouds over many a fate, over many a people.  
  
Erebor shook as once fertile soil crumbled underneath its foundation and the plants in the plains withered to blackened remnants of once overflowing life. Parts of the great mountain broke apart, split off with the force of a war machines projectile, the impacts sending dust, screams and bodies into the air.  
  
Seconds of destruction stretched into hours as lives were extinguished while others strained to escape.  
  
The sight was so achingly familiar that Thranduil might have wept, had he any tears left, and been wiling to shed them for Dwarves brought low by their own greed; no matter that the innocent were suffering most.  
  
Some of his memories stood out in sharp relief in a long line of others, their edges not smoothed by the passing of ages.  
  
Then, armies had gathered and fallen before the formidable foe that is a dragon, death passing overhead, raining down scarlet fire. Anyone touched by it had turned to ashes, while the ones trying to hold the lines beside them had melded with the armor that had been meant to protect them. One drawn breath and the fumes had reduced the strongest to lifeless shapes on cracked earth.  
  
The dragon fire had seeped into Thranduil's own skin, boiled the marrow in his very bones, branded the images into the milky center of his left eye: death, defeat and despair.  
  
It burned now, roused by the sight, within the ruin of his face, pulsing with his heartbeat.  
  
Despite its outward calm, antlers raised defiantly, Thranduil felt Voronwë's tension mirroring his own. The Great Fallow Deer's muscles kept twitching, its fur bristling. Fear rose from his faithful mount in waves, yet its service remained willing and steadfast.  
  
As the Dwarves were bound to stone, so were the Elves one with the land, and it screamed in its death throes, sending a ripple of unease through their formation. They would follow where Thranduil led, even into a fiery death that would leave no family under his reign untouched.  
  
Their arrival had not gone unnoticed.  
  
Even at a distance, Thranduil felt the weight of desperation in Prince Thorin's gaze. His shout rose over the cacophony: “Help us!”  
  
Thranduil considered, if only for a moment, and came to his decision as he must, with regret but no remorse. No matter the accusing stare of blue eyes, dawning with realization and the seed of hate, he was the Elvenking.  
  
Thranduil's kin came first, in everything.  
  
An alliance fallen to mockery and spite for the Elves of Mirkwood, eroded by gold-fever, he would still have honored against any other foe. But to fight now would have meant to throw the lives away that had escaped Smaug. - An Elven army close to the hoard the dragon had claimed as his would only provoke the fire-drake to finish the Dwarves he had deemed to overlook in his haste to reach the gold that had drawn him down from the North.  
  
With gentle pressure on Voronwë's flanks Thranduil turned his mount around. His army went with him, back from whence they had come, into the encroaching darkness of Eryn Galen.  
  
 _No help came from the Elves that day… or any day since._  
  



	2. Mirkwood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ever since his father returned from Erebor Legolas has cause to worry for him...

The guards let Legolas pass without the need for words, closing the gates behind him, and even had he been formally announced, he was sure his father would have paid no heed to his entrance.  
  
The great hall lay empty and silent, illuminated by torches, since the sun had set an hour ago, leaving Mirkwood to the darkness that encroached ever farther on the Woodland Realm. Armed statues stood sentry, flanking the columns that rose to support the ceiling's dome, their shields and swords gleaming with silver and flecks of inlaid emerald.  
  
The Elvenking sat on his antlered throne, imperious as was his wont, yet Legolas would not be fooled. Thranduil had been deeply unsettled ever since his return from Erebor; the stench of sulfur clinging to his robes and trailing after him all day.  
  
Legolas had met with him thrice to discuss the details pertaining to the refugees and their growing encampment at Mirkwood's edge, where they should be out of reach of the forest's dangers.  
  
His father had sent messengers with offers of aid to both the Men of Dale and Durin's Folk. While the former had gratefully accepted, Tauriel's report had been so carefully worded upon her return that Legolas had heard every unspoken word of insult and hatred.  
  
He could not fault the Dwarves, ached for them, even, if in a distant way. Legolas placed no limitations on his compassion, the sole exception being the dark creatures that roamed Middle-Earth.  
  
However, his focus was far closer to home at present.  
  
Even now his father's hand strayed to the wounds he hid with an illusion woven of light, tracing the scars as if they burned underneath his touch.  
  
“Ada?” Legolas asked, moving up the steps to the elevated throne, hoping to draw Thranduil's attention back to the here and now with a touch to the shoulder. “Are you well?”  
  
He was close enough to feel the long exhale that stirred his hair, and it was with relief that he met Thranduil's gaze, once again piercing and focused.  
  
“Of course. Do not worry for me, Ionneg.”  
  
Legolas allowed himself to lean into the soft caress, before cool fingers left his cheek and gently pushed him away, to a distance more befitting both their status.  
  
He would ask his father to share his thoughts and worries later, after Thranduil had retired. Now, Legolas had a report to give, and it was soothing rather than vexing, knowing that their kin would always come first and family second; as was their way.  
  
“You have come bearing news?”  
  
“Yes, my Lord. The temporary settlement has been established as planned and the guards are in position. The first transports with food and medicine have left our stores; the healers travel with them. They should arrive within the hour.”  
  
“Good.” Thranduil inclined his head, the light catching like fire in the autumn leaves of his crown. “Am I correct to assume that all our extra stores will be used up within a fortnight?”  
  
“Yes.” Legolas hesitated only briefly before adding, “The council has made its misgivings known. They wonder how we will be able to face the coming winter, harboring so many extra mouths to feed. A few have openly questioned your decision to aid the people of Esgaroth.”  
  
Thranduil's smile was grim. “And many more will not have dared voicing their thoughts so freely, especially concerning how I handled the matter with Erebor and Durin's Folk in the first place, long before the dragon ever came.”  
  
It was a fierce protective instinct that made Legolas hand wander closer to the sword at his side. “Their discontent will surely dissolve when we offer our solution.”  
  
His father still did not look too pleased with the only one they had managed to think of, though Thranduil himself had proposed it first. He reached into one of his hidden pockets, drawing forth a parchment that carried the royal seal.  
  
“Tauriel and you are to bring this to Lord Elrond of Rivendell with all haste. We will kindly ask for his help in our time of need.”  
  
“Yes, Father.” Legolas took the offered scroll. “We will leave before dawn.”  
  
“Good.”  
  
Legolas bowed, yet hesitated to follow the corridor that would lead to his own quarters. “May I come to your room before then?”  
  
“Of course.”  
  
XXX  
  
Thranduil watched him go, a smile on his lips. Legolas' touch had been like his son: strong and true and kind. Willing to share a burden he could not yet fathom, and nor he should. It was not yet time for him to feel Mirkwood's taint so keenly, to keep it at bay in constant battle. Not one of drawn arms, but will and watchfulness.  
  
For that, Thranduil was grateful. He had known no greater joy than watching his son grow, shielding and nurturing him. Other than Oropher before him and Thranduil himself, the strifes and grudges of the past did not burden him.  
  
In time, Legolas would find his own way. And, if Eru was willing, it would lead him and his people into a glorious future.  
  
Until then, the Elvenking would endure.


End file.
